Dreams
by Tara Majiere
Summary: Hawke has been made Tranquil and is a shadow of her former self. Fenris lives each day surrounded by memories, while hoping for one last miracle.
1. Chapter 1

He moved within her, gently, slowly. Her body was familiar and precious to him, and he cherished each moment of this ritual of remembrance. His hands caressed her skin, his mouth tasted it. The tang of her on his tongue made his breath hitch in desire and pain. His eyes screwed shut and he pressed his face further into her hair.

The dreams last night had been good. He dreamed of her every night, of course, but last night's had seemed as real as if it were happening all over again. He had awoken in a camp on the Wounded Coast to see her standing over him, cheeks flushed red with fury. A campfire blazed at his back, uncomfortably hot. All around him, the bodies of blood mages lay sprawled and smoking, charred black with the power of the lightning that had coursed through them. If he couldn't see her rage just from looking at her, these remains, twisted beyond recognition from an assault that was more than sufficient to kill them several times over, were a grand testament to it.

_She drops to her knees beside him, grasping his head in her hands rather roughly. Her eyes search his, tears of frustration and hate brimming inside them. He can also see relief there, as she realizes that he is alive._

_"Fenris, are you all right?" she asks. The quaver in her voice is heard by him alone. Her companions stand back far enough not to hear. He spares no glance for them. He looks into her eyes, relishing the emotion he can see there. Concern, relief, love - all for him. He never thought to be worthy of such._

_"I am unhurt," he assures her. His hands grasp her shoulders gently, his eyes scan her quickly for injuries as they did after every fight, never mind that he hadn't been a part of this one. "Are you?"_

_She ignores this question. "I am so sorry, they did this because of me. They are all dead, I killed them all. No one will ever dare take you again-"_

_She kisses him then, her beautiful soft lips suddenly hard on his, all the passion in her soul pouring into him through the taste of her on his tongue. Her hands, buried in his hair now, pull handfuls of it heedlessly. He relishes the pain of it. He returns her kiss ardently, and the burnt smell of the blackened bodies around them merges with the scent of her hair to envelop him in a glorious cloud of love and hate. _

The scent of her hair was the same. He inhaled deeply of it, and caressed the softness as he had always loved to do. He pressed his lips to hers, delved his tongue into her mouth. He gave a soft groan as his gentle thrusts inside her quickened. Her mouth acquiesced to his attentions, and he paused, waiting hopefully for a response, yearning to feel those lips caress his, for her tongue to tease him in the manner that had never failed to drive him wild.

They didn't. He murmured, "Put your hands in my hair, please, love." She obeyed; her arms raised from her sides and her hands landed lightly on his head. There was no delving of her fingers through his thick locks, no grasping and pulling in passion. He didn't expect it anymore.

His hands skated down her body to grasp her hips, to press himself ever deeper inside her. Her thighs were parted obligingly, and he imagined that they were wrapped around his hips, squeezing him hard as she writhed and moaned against him. Oh, Maker, the noises she would make, they alone were enough to drive him over the edge sometimes. He would thrust into her again and again, while she twisted and panted and pulled his hair, and those breathy moans and gasps she gave would escalate into shrieks and screams, each one echoing into the very core of his lust, driving him faster and harder into her, and just when he thought he would go insane with it, she would stiffen and contract around him, _squeezing _him so tightly, and then he would scream right along with her.

His muscles went rigid as he came, still holding her hips, his face pressed into her hair. He gasped as his body spasmed again and again, but there were no screams. He held her tightly, as tightly as he held his memories, and slowly his breathing calmed.

_Her lips, red and sweet, as flushed as her face, brush light kisses over his cheeks and neck. She is still breathing hard, as is he, and their bodies, still joined, are covered with a light sheen of sweat. "Fenris," she whispers into his ear. "I love you so much..."_

He steeled himself for the next moment, or tried to, as he raised his head and looked into her face. He knew he should expect nothing, but something inside him would not let him give up a tiny shred of hope. She lay placidly, expressionless, seemingly studying the ceiling as she patiently waited for him to release her. The brand on her forehead shone, red as blood, in the bright morning light.

Hot tears spilled from his eyes as he pulled her back into his arms. The tears shamed him, but he was powerless to stop them. "Hawke," he managed through the lump in his throat. "I miss you so much..." The placid, accepting expression on her face, along with the blankness of her eyes, broke his heart yet again.

* * *

><p>Hawke rose from the bed when Fenris finally released her from his grasp. Thirteen minutes behind schedule. Not so far behind, she thought. Some days he kept her an hour or more, talking of long ago times, trying to remind her of things she could barely remember. He glanced at her hopefully, expectantly, while he talked, but she did not know what answers would please him, so she usually said nothing. The past did not interest her.<p>

Today was the day she scrubbed the floor. There were seven hundred seventy eight tiles in the estate's foyer and entranceway. Scrubbing each tile for twenty seconds meant she would finish the floor in four hours and twenty minutes. Since she would be starting thirteen minutes late, it would leave her only seventeen minutes to prepare her shopping list before Isabela arrived to take her to the market. It was doable.

Hawke began her morning ritual. A visit to the privy, then to the washstand to bathe her face and hands. Fifty strokes with the hairbrush, then her deft fingers twisted her locks into a bun, every hair in place. If any strands escaped, she would have to start over, but none did.

Then she dressed. As she removed her nightdress, she inspected it carefully for rips, as Fenris was often careless of her clothes when he used her body. To avoid loose and missing buttons, she had begun unbuttoning her shift herself when he turned to her in bed. Once Fenris had told her that her custom had been to sleep with no clothes on at all. Before. She had quietly dismissed that notion. Nightclothes were for wearing at night, why else would they exist?

After dressing, she turned to make the bed. Sometimes Fenris lay abed far longer than was sensible, but today he had gone while she was busy. She was satisfied at this, as it meant that she would not have to wait for him and delay her schedule further, as she never left her room in the morning with her bed unmade. Once she had stood for forty two minutes while Fenris dozed, her mind counting off the seconds and repeatedly re-arranging the rest of the day in her mind as each minute crawled by.

Her next stop, as always, was the kitchen, where her first task was to rekindle the fire for the day. She could dimly remember when other people did this instead of her. The dwarf, Bodahn, and later the elf girl, Orana. Now she was the only one left, except Fenris, and she would never expect him to remember all the things that needed doing every day. He was too preoccupied with the past and his memories, it seemed to Hawke. He had forgotten how to live in the present.

She cooked breakfast for two, although Fenris had not made an appearance in the kitchen. He had no schedule. He might be in the library reading, or in the study writing letters again, or out in the courtyard practicing with his sword. The only thing she felt sure of was that he had not left the estate. He was careful to always tell her where he was going and when he would be back.

After eating, she washed her dishes carefully and put them away, leaving Fenris' breakfast neatly plated on the table, a napkin folded crisply beside it.


	2. Chapter 2

When Isabela arrived for Hawke, they were waiting for her in the library. Hawke sat quietly in a chair with her cloak on and her market basket at her feet, staring serenely into the fireplace. Fenris fidgeted, paced, picked things up and put them down again. Hawke would later retrace his steps and restore everything to its proper place, he knew.

He was nervous, as he was every week when Hawke left the estate to do her shopping. He didn't like to be separated from her. It was how the templars had managed to take her. He had been absent from her side that day, and had cursed himself for it every day since.

It was impossible for him to escort her to the market himself anymore. Although the city had mostly recovered from the horrible events of two years ago, people still remembered her, what she was, who her friends were. After the templars had branded her, she became somewhat of a joke to the citizens of Kirkwall. The first time he had taken Hawke out into the city, jagged twin wounds of grief and guilt still raw on his soul, he had heard a jeering insult hurled at Hawke from a hard-eyed man in a butcher's apron in the market square. Hawke had walked calmly on as though she didn't hear, but Fenris had lost control. The man had ended up on the ground at his feet, his apron sporting more of his own blood than that of the animals he butchered. Only the guards' intervention had saved the man's life.

Isabela took over the duty from him, else he end up imprisoned for murder and Hawke turned over to the custody of the templars. Isabela could out-insult the vilest lowlife in Kirkwall, and Fenris knew she could also defend Hawke from harm if someone ever took it into his head to lay hands on her, but still he worried. He suggested having things delivered, but Hawke preferred to do the shopping herself so that everything was purchased according to her own specifications. Fenris would not deny her anything she wished, in spite of his own worries for her. So, Isabela it was.

She walked into the library now, her dagger hilts glinting as brightly as her jewelry. Smiling, she embraced Hawke heartily as she rose from her chair. "Hello, sweetheart. Ready to go?"

"Good day, Isabela," Hawke answered, permitting the hug but not returning it. "I am ready to go." She picked up her basket and straightened her cloak.

Isabela turned to Fenris, her smile turning sympathetic. "Don't worry yourself," she murmured, as she gathered him close in a comforting hug. "I will guard her with my life."

Isabela had turned out to be a very good friend, Fenris mused as he lifted a hand in farewell to the two women as they left. Although captain of her own ship, she had remained close to Kirkwall since the branding, and Fenris knew her choice had more to do with him and Hawke than her fondness for the city, as she proclaimed. She had offered her body to him once, and when he had declined, had offered him her shoulder instead. This he had accepted, and allowed her to hold him as they shed tears together for the loss of what Hawke had been.

Since then, she had been the closest friend they had left in Kirkwall. Aveline and Donnic had come to say goodbye before leaving for Val Royeaux, and when she looked at Hawke the guilt in her eyes threatened to spill forth in a flood of helpless tears. Fenris didn't blame them for leaving, and remained grateful to Aveline for her help in negotiating the arrangement that had allowed Hawke to stay in her own estate rather than be hauled off to live in the Gallows with the other Tranquil. Varric and Merrill were still in the city, living their own lives and only visiting rarely. Fenris knew that they had been Hawke's friends, not his, and now that Hawke was essentially gone, they saw little reason to pursue relations. And, of course, no one had seen Anders since the day the Chantry exploded.

Fenris resigned himself to the long wait until their return, his nerves jittering. Hawke's safety was not the only reason that he was so on edge. He had begun to allow himself to believe that there might be a letter for him today. All his hoping over the past two years had so far not produced the particular letter he yearned for, but each time Hawke left for the market, knowing she would check the post for correspondence, he couldn't help the anticipation he felt. It was, after all, the only thing he had left to hope for.

* * *

><p>Fenris paced in front of the fireplace, trying to contain his impatience. There probably wasn't a letter, he told himself. Why would there be a letter today after all this time? The disappointment would be worse the more he expected it. He tried to calm down.<p>

His gaze locked itself on the empty doorway, willing Hawke to hurry up and make her appearance. It did no good for him to hover over her as she put away her purchases, straightened things, organized other things, and put everything to rights. The slow, deliberate way she moved made him crazy, but nothing he said could alter her routine or distract her from it. He found it best for his sanity to remain in the library.

_She bursts through the doorway in a flurry of noise, staff clattering to the floor as she tosses it in the general direction of the wall. Her cloak slumps to the floor as well, missing, by several feet, the chair it was aimed at. "Fenris!" she cries delightedly. "I've been looking for you! I have a surprise..."_

_His eyes drink her in as she lightly crosses the room toward him. Her disheveled hair tickles his face as she leans in for a kiss. As their lips touch, he embraces her tightly, to keep her there, to feel more of her warmth and life. She, however, breaks off the kiss, her eyes glinting with mischief and promise. His palm cups her cheek, and his callused thumb slides across the smooth skin of her face. She smiles at him, and at the sight of it Fenris can feel his heart clench._

_"Look," she instructs him excitedly, as she unwraps a bundle she has been cradling in her arms. She reveals a book, old and worn, the leather cover riddled with cracks, but as soft as her skin with age. "It's the fourth volume of Genitivi's Ferelden history. I can't believe I found this! It was a piece of luck, I tell you-"_

With a start, Fenris realized that the doorway was no longer empty. Hawke stood there serenely, awaiting his acknowledgement. Her dress and shoes appeared as clean as when she put them on this morning, although he knew how dusty and dirty the streets were, particularly the marketplace itself. Her hair looked as though it had never felt a breeze.

"Come in, darling," he invited. "Did you find everything you wanted at the market today?" It felt like a script, but he recited it dutifully because she expected him to.

"Yes, I did, thank you," she answered as she placed herself into an armchair. She did not slump, she did not use the armrests, and she most certainly did not fling both of her legs over one arm and _lounge_. She continued, "I was only able to buy thirteen pounds of flour instead of fifteen. The merchant's shipment did not arrive. I bought two extra bags of rice instead. I will adjust our menu accordingly."

"Wonderful." He smiled at her. "And did you stop by the post?"

"Yes, I did," she responded, and, incredibly, reached inside her cloak and brought forth a small, stained envelope. "There was a letter for you." She held it out to him.

He took it from her slowly, as though expecting it to disappear. It was dirty, fingerprinted, somewhat crumpled. It had come a long way. Fighting to control his voice, he asked, "And who is it from?"

"I do not know," she replied tonelessly. "It was not addressed to me, so I did not open it."

Fenris remembered a time when such a small thing as a name written on an envelope would never have stopped Hawke and her curiosity. With trembling fingers, he opened it and pulled out the single sheet of parchment within.

_I am in Ferelden. Ask her where, she will know. Bring her with you._

It was unsigned. Fenris tried to keep his excitement under control as his heart pounded wildly within his chest. This was it, the letter he had been so long hoping and praying for. Only one thing remained to be confirmed: the author's identity.

He turned the parchment toward Hawke so she could see the words. He asked carefully, "Darling, do you know who wrote this?"

After a glance at it, she replied, "Yes. This was written by Anders."

Anders. _Anders_. Finally. Fenris felt his knees shake. Two long years he had been searching for that accursed mage. He had disappeared from Kirkwall as though he had never existed, and none of Fenris' discreet inquiries had revealed anything at all. He had questioned Hawke repeatedly, asking for the names of other mages, former patients, Fereldan Grey Wardens, anyone who might have kept in contact with Anders. Hawke had given him all the names she knew, and he had written letters upon letters asking for any information at all. Although most of those he asked were sympathetic to Hawke's plight, they simply had no knowledge of Anders. A small few, however, had provided other names. He diligently wrote more letters, following up on every lead. And now, somehow, after all this time, word had reached Anders that Fenris was seeking him.

"Are you sure Anders wrote it?" he questioned her.

"Yes. I can prove it if you wish."

"Please do."

Hawke rose from the chair and walked to one of the bookcases. From one of the books, she pulled several loose sheets of parchment that had been placed between the book's pages and showed them to Fenris. They were covered with a scrawling script which exactly matched that of the letter. "These are pages of Anders' manifesto. I saved them a long time ago. Would you like to keep them?"

He politely declined. Hawke slid the pages into the book again and placed it back on the shelf, its spine lined up perfectly with the books beside it.

"And what of his location? Do you know where he is?" Fenris asked gently.

"He is in Lothering," Hawke answered promptly.

"How can you be sure? Lothering doesn't exist anymore..."

"That is exactly why he is hiding there. Lothering was destroyed and no one is left to discover him, including the templars. In this letter, Anders refers to a conversation he and I had a long time ago, wherein we discussed where we would go if we were to flee Kirkwall and return to Ferelden. We discussed Lothering at some length."

Lothering. So be it. Fenris gently cupped her face between his palms and whispered, "You and I are going to Lothering, love."

"I will pack provisions for the trip," she responded blandly. No questions about why, no protests at leaving her estate. She was as docile as a walking doll.

"You do that." He placed a gentle kiss on her unresponsive lips.


End file.
